Still Lives
by mkai
Summary: A friendship, a visitor, a dream?


Title: Still Lives  
Author: Michelle Kai  
Rating: PG  
Category: eventually post-ep for Empedocles  
Spoilers: it'd spoil the surprise so please just give it a read!  
Distribution: anywhere if ya let me know first!   
Dedication: This piece is dedicated to the wonderful Doggship, in particular to Anne Hedonia for the awesome beta and encouragement. Also a huge thanks to "Lone Star"'s   
alanna and "The Cliffs of Falls"'s wjmtv for inspiration to write Doggettfic.   
Author's notes: (at the end)  
  
********************************************  
  
Still Lives  
  
  
"Hi," a small voice whispered shyly.  
  
Peeling his intent gaze away from the batter for a minute, the boy turned to see who had spoken.   
  
"Hey," he replied with all the authority of his seven years before returning his squint at the batter taking a practice swing.   
  
"What are you doing?" the little voice continued.  
"I'm playing baseball!" the boy punched his left fist into his well-worn glove and crouched a little lower, pulling on the bill of his cap to keep the sun out of his eyes. "You'd better go sit on the bench. I don't want to run into you when I catch this one." The boy grinned as he looked at the little girl again.   
  
Instead of walking away, she asked, "Why don't you wear your glove on the same hand as them?" gesturing the other players.   
  
"'Cuz I'm a lefty, like my dad." the boy flashed another smile. Then he knitted his brows together, trying to imitate his dad's 'serious' expression. "Look, the ball is going to come flying this way any minute now. You gotta go."   
  
"It's okay. The ball won't hit me."   
  
"You don't know -" his words were cut short as the crowd erupted in cheers to the baseball sailing gracefully in a high arc, straight towards where they were standing. The boy sprang into action and ran towards the estimated landing spot of the ball. Opening his glove wide, he stretched his arm up as the ball came closer, faster, closer still, to his waiting palm. When contact was almost certain, the boy closed his fingers, anticipating the satisfying thud as rawhide hit leather. Instead, he only heard the whoosh of the ball flying past - no, flying *through* his gloved hand, landing on the grass behind him. In half a second it was scooped up by his buddy Nick and thrown straight to second base, arriving a fraction of a second before the batter.   
"OUT!" the umpire shouted and half of the players cheered, while all the parents applauded, signifying the end of another game.   
  
The boy was baffled but started running after his teammates, calling out, "Good arm, Nick!" Nick didn't even turn around. Running faster to catch up, the boy tried again, "Hey, Nick!" Still no response. More boys ran in from the field as they gathered around Nick and the second baseman Joel, cheering and high fives all around. The boy joined in the celebration but no one seemed to notice him. Finally as the players dispersed, packing up to go home, the boy walked up to a man. "Coach, did you see that? I CAUGHT that last one. Except I DIDN'T, 'cuz it fell through... Coach?" The man continued packing up the gear, oblivious to the boy's plight and perplexity.   
  
"He can't hear you."   
  
"What?"  
  
"He can't hear you." the little girl repeated.   
  
"Why not?"   
  
"'Cuz we don't live in the same place they do anymore."   
  
"What are you talking about? I live just down the street. My mom and dad -" the boy scanned the quickly thinning crowd. " They should be right over there." He stretched his neck to find his parents' familiar forms.   
  
"They aren't here." the little girl said sadly, shaking her head a little.   
  
"What do you mean? Mom and Dad never miss my games! They must be just talking to someone..." the first hint of uncertainty crept into his voice.   
  
"They didn't come today."   
  
"Why not? How would you know?" he tried masking his fear with anger. "Who are you anyway? What's your name?"   
  
"Emily."   
  
******************************end of part one************************  
  
An hour had passed since the last minivan pulled away from the parking lot in a cloud of dust. The sun slowly but steadily dipped, lengthening the shadows around the two small figures remaining on the bleachers at the park. Neither spoke for a long time.   
  
"I know I'm not supposed to leave the diamond by myself, but it's getting dark," the boy mumbled more to himself than to Emily. "Okay, I'm going to walk home. Dad probably just got a call from the office and had to go in a hurry." Suddenly remembering the small figure still sitting patiently beside him, the boy asked, "Don't you have to go home? Where are your parents?"   
  
"It's okay," the girl said ambiguously.   
  
"You'd better come with me. You can call your mom from my house. Do you know your phone number?"   
  
The little girl shook her head.   
  
"That's okay. My dad's a cop. He'll make sure you get home safe. Come on!" The boy bounded off the bleachers then turned and waited for Emily to make her way down more slowly.   
  
"Oh, and my name is Luke." the boy remarked casually.   
  
"I know." Emily replied. Luke frowned slightly and then shrugged. Holding her hand, he led the way home.   
  
As the pair neared a house with a tire tree swing, Luke spotted a bike lying haphazardly on the front lawn. 'Uh-oh,' he thought, 'Better put it away before Mom finds out.' Letting go of Emily's hand, he said, "I'm just going to put this way. Wait here, okay?" Just as he leaned over to grab the handlebars, the headlights of a passing car illuminated the bike, reflecting a pink frame with Barbie stickers. "Hey, that's not my bike!" Luke exclaimed as he recoiled, as if touching something so girly would affect his boyishness. Deciding to leave the bike alone, Luke jogged up to the porch steps.   
  
When the door wouldn't open, he rang the doorbell, rocking back and forth impatiently. Hearing footsteps inside getting louder, Luke grinned, anticipating the look of surprise on his mom's face when she opened the door. Then he thought it would be funnier if he made one of his 'scary faces', so he pulled down his cheeks and stuck out his tongue. 'Mom's going to scream', thought Luke mischievously as the door opened to reveal - a woman with an apron, but not his mom. Instantly embarrassed, Luke stammered, "Uh... sorry about that. But, uh... who are you? I mean, is my mom home?" His ears felt like they were on fire. The woman looked up and down the street with a confused expression for a moment, then turned and closed the door behind her.   
  
"Hey!" Luke protested. "What's going on? I live here! Mom? Dad? Open the door!" Luke pounded on the door. He jammed his fingers at the button of the doorbell again.   
  
"George, would you get that?" the woman's voice called above the sound of the TV and pots and pans clanging.   
"Sure honey," came the muffled response as heavy footfall thumped down stairs to approach the door. The door opened revealing a man, but not his dad. The man's expectant expression soon turned to annoyance.   
"Kids!" he muttered shaking his head and closed the door firmly behind him, sliding the bolt into place for good measure.   
  
"Hey! Who are you? What's going on? Let me inside!! Lemme in!" His frantic pleas started to take on a desperate tone as they all went unanswered. Exhausted, Luke sat down on the porch steps, burying his face in his hands as loud choking sobs racked his body. He felt a small hand tap his right shoulder, and looked up.   
  
"Don't cry," Emily looked sad.   
  
"Who are those people?" Luke managed through his hiccups.   
  
"They live here."  
  
"NO! I live here! See that swing? My dad put it up for me when I was little! I live here with my mom and dad!"   
  
"They live here now."   
  
"Then where are my mom and dad now?" Luke asked quietly after a moment.  
  
"I'll show you." Emily looked up at the sky, "Not yet. When the stars come out."   
  
  
***************************end of part two**************************   
  
John Doggett pushed his weary body into his house, resting his holster beside his keys on the coffee table, and sank into his couch. He told his overworked brain to stop for a second, but still it went a mile a minute, considering possibilities and then dismissing them again. "Maybe it was for that little girl." Monica's words echoed inside his pounding head.   
  
Watch it, John cautioned himself, you don't want to go there.   
  
Whenever his thoughts turned to Luke... "Aw... f-" He started to berate himself, but stopped and got up instead, as if he could still hear his wife's voice telling him not to use that word around their son. Opening the fridge, he reached for two beers and downed half of one in a single gulp. John hated himself for trying to drown out his emotions. For many dark months after Luke's death, alcohol was his only solace. And then it was an uphill battle week after week of trying to regain control, fighting tooth and nail every minute of the day. By the time he was sober, his marriage had dissolved, his once perfect little family completely shattered. It took a year for him to be able to trust himself to drink again, cleaned up enough to enroll in the FBI Academy. Over time he learned to cling on to the memories of happier times, and could even look at a picture of his son with a smile instead of breaking down. But the last few days, with the arrival of Monica and the reappearance of Bob Harvey, all his emotions were sitting precariously close to the surface.   
  
For that little girl, we were there on time John thought bitterly. But why was no one there for my little boy? Why are some saved and others lost? Does God play favourites? And if so, why did Luke fall from grace? Is there any rhyme or reason to who lives and who dies? Why not me, God? Why didn't you take me instead? He was only 7, his life had hardly begun. How can you let this happen to such a beautiful, intelligent and loving boy? All my life I've fought for justice, defending those who can't help themselves. I've stood watch so many nights and sworn that no one will get hurt - not on my watch. But I couldn't even protect my own family, my son.   
  
John knew that he should stop thinking like this. Go outside, run around the block, get some fresh air. But instead of changing into his sweatpants, he reached for another drink. Can time really take away pain? Or does it just take away your ability to feel? Good, the less feeling tonight, the better. I don't need fantasies or theories, or "other possibilities". The reality already hurts too much. But Agent Scully's words drifted into his fogging brain. "I was afraid, afraid to believe." Am I afraid to believe? John wondered as he ripped the tab off his fifth drink. If I face this fear... angrily he shoved that thought away. Would confronting these doubts bring Luke back? But another voice in his head immediately countered, Would I do it if it could? "I just want you to be honest with yourself." Monica's voice, again. What are lies and what are truths? What the hell does it matter? What did he see and what did he imagine? What if...what if...John had heard stories about people seeing visions of the dead before, even read up on it in his desperation to see his son again. What did they call it again? The crazier stories had something about stars... starlight. Walk-ins, that's the name. What if... you have to believe to see? But seeing is believing, right? What does that damn poster behind Mulder's desk say? (Scully's desk, whatever.)   
  
I want to believe.   
  
John massaged his temples and set down his drink. Rubbing his tired eyes, he sighed and tried to coax his body into moving towards the bedroom. For a second, he closed his eyes and suspended all incredulity. I want to believe that I will see him again. I want to see my baby boy again, even for just a minute. He felt his eyes start to burn with unshed tears. Luke...  
  
"Daddy?"   
  
An almost forgotten voice pierced his sorrow. John jerked his head up, and was met with the sight that could only appear in his dreams.   
  
"Luke?" John whispered with uncertainty, afraid that the image of his son would just disappear if he blinked.   
  
"Yeah." Luke said with the brightest smile and ran towards his dad. John felt his heart melt and tears stream down his face as he embraced his son, holding on with no intention of ever letting go. Gently he rocked his son like the first time he held him.   
  
"I'm so sorry, Luke." John sobbed, "So sorry..."   
  
"I love you, Daddy," was Luke's only response. When John's crying subsided, he looked down at the smiling face of his son, fast asleep in his arms. John closed his eyes...  
  
Sunlight streamed into the room and John slowly opened his eyes, instantly aware of every painful joint and muscle he now had as a result of sleeping on the couch. Suddenly remembering the night's events, he sat up and stepped on an empty beer can. It was just a dream. Just as despair was about to set in, John realized that he was holding something against his chest. Slowly he pulled his arm away. In his hand was a baseball cap.  
  
  
  
********************end of part three**********************  
  
Epilogue  
  
"Will I get to see him again?"   
"You can always see him."  
"But will he see me?"  
"Maybe."  
"So what do I do now?"   
"Want to play with me?"  
"Do you know how to play baseball?"   
  
--end-  
  
  
author's notes: what do you think? Feedback always welcomed at m_whiz@hotmail.com Oh, and the title is a tribute to the beautiful opening soliloquy of "Closure".   



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